


Chrysalis (or "The Five Times Widowmaker Kissed Tracer and The One Time Amelie Kissed Lena")

by radstickers



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: 5+1 Things, F/F, Kissing, Mentions of Injuries, battlefield romance, mild violence, sexy french talk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-15
Updated: 2018-01-30
Packaged: 2018-09-08 16:12:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8851480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/radstickers/pseuds/radstickers
Summary: Tracer always suspected there was something more than ice and ruthlessness behind those yellow eyes. Does what it says on the tin. I've always wanted to write a 5+1 challenge.





	1. King's Row

**Author's Note:**

> First OW fic so. be gentle with me . w. this pairing has captured my heart.

The first time it happened, Tracer’s chronal accelerator was malfunctioning. 

It was not the  _ first _ time, and the actual chronal anchor itself was working just fine, but her anxiety would climb steadily higher. Not only did it make her fear for the day when the anchor itself would flicker, but she’s next to useless for her team now. 

_ Some Cavalry. _

She wonders if it has to do with the rain; England was  _ always _ rainy this time of year, and King’s Row was no different. Still, she can count on one hand the number of times this has happened, and she’s been through worse weather before. 

She can  _ scout _ , and that’s about it. Her guns reload based on the accelerator, so she’s stuck with old fashion pistols now, a short mag tucked against her left breast. She knows she’s more than an easy target, without her primary defense (or offense). Her speed has made her a worthy little trophy too, she’d have to be  _ daft _ not to hear some of the comments. 

They  _ told _ her not to come today, but Tracer was hardly discouraged by  _ anyone _ . Maybe she can get some civvies out of the way. Maybe there’s something she can still do.

The rain plasters her hair to her chilled skin, seeping in past the seal in her goggles to catch on dark brown lashes. It’s  _ quiet _ , in her little alcove, peering out and scanning, whispering  _ all clear _ s back to her teammates. Without the accelerator, she feels more and more  _ aware _ of herself, aware of how cold and heavy damp tights can be, how the only article of clothing she has suited for this is her jacket, but that even it is starting to get damp.

And she’s cold  _ herself _ , without the normal amount of sprinting and running, of adrenaline to keep her warm amid the rain.

So caught up she is, in watching the movement several blocks away that she doesn’t sense anything out of the ordinary until it’s too late. 

The hairs on the back of her neck stand on end half a second before a hand grasps her collar, pulling her back and off-balance. Tracer  _ yelps _ despite herself, muscles balling up tightly in preparation for a  _ fight, _ only to feel a hand make quick and efficient work of her pistols, pulling them from makeshift holsters at her hips, unloading them and tossing both them and ammo down into the alley in front of them. 

She  _ squirms _ in that grasp, as a cold hand presses over her mouth and pulls her further back, screaming muffled and  _ panicked _ . And over and over again does she try to blink, to  _ recall _ , her panic leaving her dizzy and reliant on old habits….

She’s thrust against the wall, hard. For a moment she makes a soft noise of  _ pain _ and disorientation, trying to turn her head to see just  _ who _ has her now. The hand at her mouth grips into her hair, and Tracer  _ screams _ out.

“Let me  _ go!” _

“Hush,  _ Cherié… _ ”

The words are hissed into her ear, weight of muscle pressing her further against the wall to  _ pin _ her. Tracer squirms  _ harder _ , to at least turn so she can  _ see _ the owner of such a recognizable accent. 

“What...what do you want?” 

Tracer  _ squirms _ , struggling and half thrashing, but Widowmaker has the muscle advantage, keeping her pinned with frustrating  _ effortlessness _ even while Tracer half sobs as her panic reaches a new high. 

“W-waited ‘till I was defenseless? That’s like you. Preying on the weak...wouldn’t...wouldn’t it have been more satisfying to pick me off from half a mile away?”

She’s only pinned tighter, making an involuntary noise when she feels Widowmaker’s breath against her ear. 

“Be  _ still _ . Had I wanted to take you with a bullet, I would have.”

The normally unending curiosity that bubbles in Tracer is rather shallow when it comes to Talon motives. Were they waiting to capture her? She goes stiff and still for just a moment, before her thrashing begins anew.

“Ohh no. I’m not gonna let you take me in,  _ that’s not going to-- _ ”

Tracer’s words fall muffled as a cool hand presses over her mouth.

“Just be  _ still.” _

The exacerbation in that tone makes Tracer pause for a moment, an odd  _ vulnerability _ to it that she hasn’t heard from those lips since long before they had turned blue and cold...and she turns slightly, trying to confirm what she hears in that voice to what she can see on that face.

Normally cutting yellowed eyes gaze upon her with no less intensity than a sniper would, but there’s something else in that gaze. Something soft, something  _ attentive _ , and maybe even something eager as well. 

Tracer makes a soft noise of discomfort when she’s moved from having her chest pressed to the wall to her back, a cold hand taking hold of her wrists in one swift motion and pinning them over her head. 

But this time...she doesn’t fight it, caught in the look in those yellowed eyes, in whatever  _ mystery _ emotion is bubbling slowly to the surface. 

The hand comes off her mouth, and Tracer suddenly has an answer.

That cool palm is replaced by cool lips, pressing against hers not in the savagery of a dominant, assailing kiss, but the softness of a  _ first _ one. The hand that had clamped over her mouth now plays a more supporting role, to rest softly against Tracer’s jaw, thumbing over one of the many freckles…

With her anxiety and panic as high as they were, Tracer’s first reply is a soft  _ sob _ , something between relief and further confusion. But when Widowmaker fails to  _ bite _ , to  _ poison _ , or to otherwise injure…

Tracer starts to return the kiss, small and nervous though it is. She jerks back after their teeth clash, but Widowmaker only responds but stroking her neck  _ softly _ and closing the distance again, turning her head to make it easier…

The anxiety and fear wound up in Tracer’s breast starts to soften at this gentle treatment, letting her lips part slightly, even arching off the wall…

She knows it’s her own heat radiating off of Widowmaker, but she starts to feel warm again, pressing herself a bit closer as her wrists soften beneath those fingers. 

If she is very honest, Tracer’s no stranger to this as a  _ fantasy _ . Images of  _ her _ , before her skin turned blue and before those eyes turned predatory, of being held softly and kissed lazily. And even now, even as  _ Widowmaker _ , Tracer’s foolish little  _ crush _ has never fully subsided. Perhaps...had only  _ grown. _

Maybe it had been fueled by  _ longing _ , a desire to put things right again. To soften those cold, sharp edges, to smooth away distrust and  _ deadliness _ and replace it with warmth and love…

“ _ Amelie…”  _ Tracer tries, whispering it tenderly against those lips. Maybe she can start now, when those deadly sights aren’t fixed on her. And when Tracer pulls at her wrists, she’s surprised when Widow releases them, still using her body to pin Tracer to the wall, but…

Tracer doesn’t feel trapped.

Her arms come to rest on those much taller shoulders, lifting a gloved hand to rub just beneath that long tail of hair…

“...is this what you wanted?” she whispers into the kiss again, punctuating it by closing the gap with a feather light kiss. “...you should have asked, y’know... I’d’ve given it to you…”

A cool hand comes to rest over her accelerator, and despite herself, Tracer’s relaxation vanishes. She presses back to the wall unconsciously, pulling a hand down to cover her chest. Try as she might, she just...cannot  _ fully _ trust. No matter how much she might want to…

“D-don’t…”

“I’m not going to hurt you,  _ Cherié.  _ It’s just…”

Tracer lifts her hand when she sees how  _ soft _ that expression is, holding her breath as cold fingers trace along the edges of her accelerator.

“.... _ c’est chaleureux _ .”

And that hand lifts back to Tracer’s face, a cool thumb stroking at her kiss swollen bottom lip…

“... _ Toi, aussi.” _

Tracer begins to relax, to let her arms wrap around that neck again. 

“Are you cold, Spidah?”

Her tone is relaxed,  _ soft _ . And when those yellowed eyes fall slightly, Tracer presses closer, closing her eyes and wrapping her arms around Widowmaker tightly.

“....does it help?” Tracer asks, biting her lip when she feels Widowmaker return her hug all the more  _ tightly _ . “...you know, you don’t...feel so cold this close…”

Her nose, cold as it is, buries into Widowmaker’s neck, nuzzling as she closes what little gap there was between them. 

When the sounds of gunshots faded off, Tracer would untangle herself from those arms. And soft brown eyes would watch Widowmaker pick up her sniper rifle, gazing at that tall, lean form, following with her eyes as that grappling hook drags her away again. 

It’s not until well after she’s returned to the barracks, after a hot shower and after curling beneath her blankets that she starts to feel warm again.


	2. Numbani

The second time found Tracer tucked in the abandoned coffee shop in Numbani, head resting against the wall as she tried not to pass out. She had been hurt badly, thrown off the escort and had managed to crawl away from an explosion, but the stint had left her separated from the group. Mercy was coming, soon as she could. But it would take time. 

Tracer tries to count the ceiling tiles, an exercise to keep her eyes open even while welcoming blackness called to her. She tries to focus on her senses, on the cold tile under her rear, how it seeps through her skin tight clothes. The way her triggers feel under her fingers, the way her body feels a little  _ cooler _ than the warm hum of the accelerator in her chest. 

“I could use some healing,” she calls again, though unlike her normal chipper calls through the radio, this one is rather dulled. “Just...when you get a chance.”

She fights the urge to say directly how much it  _ hurts _ , how heavy her limbs feel. 

Time passes, she doesn’t know how long. Maybe she passed out for a few moments, maybe it was closer to 20 minutes. Hell, it could have been a  _ day _ for all she knows. 

When she hears footsteps, Tracer glances up to the doorway, swallowing back a small sound of relief. 

“Mercy…” she starts, eyes rolling back as she fights to stay conscious. “Sorry for...repeated calls. Know you don’t like that…”

She swallows as the figure gets closer, turning her head to try to glimpse those wings, her brows coming in when she doesn’t see them.

“Mer..cy?”

“I’m afraid not,  _ Cherié.” _

Tracer’s heart climbs into her chest when the silhouette resolves in her vision, tall and lean and  _ dark _ and menacing, holding that sniper rifle trained down at Tracer.

Months had passed, since that rainy day, and so had Widowmaker’s attitude. Gone was any trace of the softness and  _ warmth _ , and in its place lay the normal frigid accuracy. And Tracer knew better than to tempt fate, to try to  _ force _ back the circumstances that led to the kiss. Best just to let it go as a fluke, to enjoy the memory--but to accept that  _ Amélie _ is gone. And that Widowmaker could so  _ easily _ kill Tracer...

Tracer makes a noise, trying to lift her pistols, but her vision swims--and before she can pull the trigger, Widowmaker kicks both out of her hands, pressing the barrel of that rifle against her temple. 

Though Widowmaker has returned to her normal, cold  _ cruel _ self, Tracer’s behavior has changed, less  _ playful _ and flirty and more cautious around the assassin. Even now, soft amber eyes peer up, unfocused but  _ trying _ into yellowed hues, swallowing against a sandpaper throat. 

“You….y’don’t really like being so close to your prey, though,” Tracer tries to reason, eyes closing as a wave of nausea and dizziness passes over her. “Y...you’d be so much...h-happier picking me off from that roof over th---”

She cuts off with a soft  _ whimper _ when the gun presses tighter to her temple. The realization of the situation seems to hit her  _ hard, _ knowing in that moment that Mercy will  _ never _ come, that it’ll be too late to do much if she’s shot at point blank. Despite herself, she sniffs, desperation and  _ sorrow _ boiling in her chest. 

But it’s not for  _ her _ .

“...Amélie…”

She shifts, bracing her back to the wall, figuring she only has a few moments to speak her piece before the bullet finds home.

She shakes her head, wincing at the scrape of that barrel to her temple. 

“...I should have pushed harder for extraction…”

Unfocused eyes open, blinking up at the darkened silhouette with a soft sniff.

“I know...it doesn’t really matter now. But...I still think about you.”

The barrel suddenly comes off of her temple and Tracer’s eyes screw shut. But no shot comes, a cool hand resting against her neck as she hears Widowmaker crouch. 

“Hush  _ Cherié… _ ”

Fingers press against her lips, and Tracer obeys the command, biting her lip with a heavy sigh to ride out a wave of pain. She feels Widowmaker shift over her, pulling her hand plastered against her side off to look at the injury.

“S...someone clipped me,” Tracer whispers with a small noise of pain, gesturing weakly to the blood stained torn jacket against her right side. “...it’s not….not _ too  _ deep, but...got separated and…”

She doesn’t know why she’s telling Widow this; it seems somewhat ridiculous to explain her injuries to an enemy sniper. But, she figures, if Widowmaker is this close, she won’t mind her inane prattle. 

_ Sort of like….expecting the rain not to be wet when you walk out into it, eh Spidah? _

Despite Widowmaker’s hold, when another wave of pain passes over Tracer, she tugs back her arm with a pathetic whimper, pressing it tightly over the injury and stiffening to keep quiet. 

“I see,” comes that deep voice, and Tracer clings to the accent, to the low, sultry  _ drawl _ , anything to keep her mind off of the searing pain in her side-- or the blackness crawling at the edges of her vision….

Tracer’s eyes shoot open when she hears Widowmaker shift, watching through blurred vision when that figure rises back to full height. She watches long fingers reach to collect her weapon, her own lips parting when she watches them slide in a full mag into the side and close the compartment. 

Tracer swallows against a cotton filled mouth. But it’s when Widowmaker walks towards the door that she tries to sit up, only to yelp out in pain. 

“W-wait--”

She senses more than sees those yellow eyes fall back on her.

“T-that’s not  _ fair _ , you can’t just... _ show up _ and then leave…”

She squirms, trying to sit up, only opening up her injury more. She only manages to roll onto one hand, the other tightly clamped around her middle when a hand grips her shoulder, shoving her back down against the wall.

“ _ Ne bouge pas, _ you foolish girl,” comes that low hiss, spoken sharply and half spitefully. And despite that orders have never set well with Tracer, this one she follows with half a sob of pain and a resigned nod. But she cannot watch Widowmaker, as she stands again, moving out the door. 

Seeing an enemy leave her, after doing so little to hurt her  _ should _ have set Tracer’s mind at ease. She just has to hold out now for Mercy, and then the pain will lessen and she can stand up again, reload, and continue the fight. But Tracer’s never done terribly well with isolation, and even the small, cruel company that Widowmaker can be...is missed.

She loses track of time again, turning her head to press her temple against the wall behind her. Her vision fades, worsening...and breathing becomes more and more difficult. She tries to count them, but loses track…

The door opens again, and this time Tracer doesn’t look up. It could be anyone now, come to raid supplies. And maybe if she just...lays quietly, they won’t hurt her, if they’re an enemy. 

Tracer holds her breath, something she’s been half doing all along because of the pain. She can hear the steps come to a halt, and knows she’s been spotted, hearing the weight shift from one leg to another…

“ _ Cherié!” _

Hands grip her shoulders  _ fiercely _ , and amber eyes flash open to meet yellow. And Tracer’s heart nearly  _ stops _ .

Tears flood those yellowed eyes, wide and  _ fierce _ with emotions, with grief, with  _ fear _ . It’s not the face of a hunter.

For a few precious moments, the pain fades in favor of this distraction, of those eyes so rounded and focused and  _ grieving _ . 

The look fades, before Tracer can even find the words to say about it, relief flooding that yellowed gaze. And Tracer watches with rapt attention as Widowmaker takes  _ time _ to recover, to recollect herself. Shame floods that gaze as well, and she doesn’t speak for a long moment, reaching down to grasp Tracer’s wrist to lift it off the wound.

Tracer whimpers in pain, amber eyes falling to watch Widow lift the clothing off the wound. And it’s then that she sees the open medpack beside Widowmaker and  _ slowly _ ….Tracer puts it together.

Despite herself, she starts to  _ laugh _ . 

“D-don’t….don’t tell me….you…”

She can’t believe it, her tone incredulous. She’s more than willing to believe this to be a hallucination, except for the sharp, stinging pain of alcohol seeping into her wound. She cuts off her half choked laugh with a sharp cry.

A hand clamps over her mouth, and Tracer watches Widow’s gaze turn sharply to the window. She goes rigidly still, impressively so considering the sharp turn in balance. Ready to pounce...or flee.

And when whatever catches her attention fades, her hand smoothes to cup that cheek before pushing Tracer’s face away.

“ _ Ne regarde pas.” _

Tracer does as she’s told, closing her eyes and pressing her cheek to the wall. Her breathing comes in short little  _ huffs _ when she suddenly realizes that Widow is closing her wounds.

There’s no medication however, and Tracer wonders if she’s close to passing out. It’s  _ bad _ , her lungs suddenly locking. She couldn’t scream if she tried. And then everything goes black. 

She wakes slowly, able to breathe a little easier. She blinks a few times, shifting. She’s still in the coffee shop, and her eyes fall on the empty medpack in front of her, the remnants of bandaging and medicine now discarded. But then she realizes who’s sitting against the wall beside her. 

Widowmaker sits quietly, polishing the barrel of her rifle. 

“ _ Désolé,” _ she whispers, her gaze never lifting from the weapon propped between her legs. “I forgot that...painkillers are an option.”

Tracer’s lips part when she hears that voice.

“They don’t...give you…?”

“ _ Jamais _ . I think...they would not work, considering the chemistry.”

Widow slowly stands.

“Your...little  _ friends _ will be by soon. Seems they have broken our perimeter…”

“You...you could stay…” Tracer answers, whimpering a bit when she moves in the wrong direction. She earns a sharp look from Widowmaker, from moving or speaking, she’s not sure. But her strength and courage are returning, and she won’t back down now.

“We could...try to fix the chemistry. No one deserves that….”

Widowmaker starts to open her mouth, but Tracer cuts her off.

“C’mon then, you know we have the better scientists. And Mercy will know what to do. She’ll fix it, and you can come home and--”

She’s cut off, blue lips sealing over her own to effectively  _ silence _ . But the kiss is still gentle, a hand resting on her cheek. And Tracer’s eyes close, a tear streaming down her cheek only to get caught in the seal of her goggles. 

Her lips part to welcome the kiss, a hand lifting to rest softly on Widowmaker’s forearm, trying to anchor her. She feels her throat swell, hiccuping but desperate to keep the contact between them, despite the way she feels Widowmaker already start to pull away...

“...Please, Amélie…” her voice is barely a whisper, already choked up. She sniffles softly, amber eyes gazing guilelessly into yellowed hues...

“ _ Adieu, Cherié.” _

A half sob builds in Tracer’s chest as she watches Widowmaker stand, sparing her one last look before she moves out the door.


	3. Interim

It was only the next day that it happened again.

She was found, shortly after Widowmaker left, passing out again in Mercy’s arms as she was lifted up. She hears chatter, coming in and out before and after surgery about how  _ lucky _ she was to still be alive. If she had bled out, as she was on her way to doing, the long wait would have meant the nanobots could not have repaired the damage. She would have died. 

She starts to gain better awareness when back at HQ, though her disorientation is still bad. Mercy stays nearby, checking Tracer’s pain levels and trying to do her best to get the former pilot to take some well deserved rest. 

Most concerning to Overwatch is Tracer’s lack of engagement. She hardly talks, just...gazes out the window and loses track of conversation. 

“It’s a lot like how she was when we first put the implant in,” Mercy observes quietly to Winston. “We should be sure that she sees and hears people. Other than that, she just needs some rest.”

Tracer sits on the edge of her bed. She hasn’t mentioned a word about Widowmaker. She’s not even sure if what happened was  _ real _ . She’s no stranger to hallucinations, but...she just hoped...she had left them behind.

Years had passed, since the Slipstream incident. But the months of disconnected half existence, punctuated by hallucinations have not left her. Between the fears of being trapped forever to the disorientation of seeping through walls and time, it’s no wonder she started to hallucinate. Even after she was fixed with the chronal stabilizer, she was far too nervous to try to corroborate what was real and what was fiction.

_ “Winston is working on a solution,” Amélie whispered, blue eyes gazing softly into brown. Her voice sounds hazy, and Lena can already feel herself beginning to fade again. She half stumbles over to the window, where she can see Amélie’s figure, choking on a sob when her hand passes through the wall. “But I am here. It is alright... Just come back to us…” _

She never got the chance to ask if Amélie visited her or not. It hardly seemed like the time, because after her implant came online, Amélie was gone. And she never got to talk to her again. 

It hardly seemed appropriate to ask. And she never wanted to add more attention to the crush she couldn’t seem to shake on a man’s  _ wife _ . 

She’s not even sure which is worse by this point: a crush on Gérard Lacroix’s wife or one of Talon’s best. 

Her side aches with the recent surgery. The nanobots work quickly, and all that’s left to do is heal from the bruising the injury caused; no stitches or wounds to tear. Just time to recover. But it still  _ hurts _ and it’s the side she most likes to sleep on. 

Tired amber eyes fall on the window sill. She doesn’t remember when the sun set, just that it has. There’s three clocks in her room, the ticking soothing to her. 

9:02.

They left her door open slightly, so she could hear people coming and going. They understood better than anyone that Tracer needs  _ anchors _ , waypoints to adhere to when she feels disoriented. Clocks, people...voices….

Feeling chilled, Tracer reaches for a blanket tucked at the foot of the bed, pulling it around her shoulders and shivering slightly. 

She blanks out, blinking suddenly when her room is even  _ darker _ and the clock on the wall reads  _ 10:59 _ . 

Panic rises in her throat. She remembers this, shortly after being fit with her implant. Gaps in time, in awareness...not so much her chronal dissociation but her mind not being able to keep up, shutting down and leaving her disoriented and scared for how much time has passed that she wasn’t aware of.

Tracer curls beneath the blankets now. She shivers, working her way under the covers and trying to focus on the sensation of her own sheets, smelling softly against them. 

She watches the hand work its way around the clock, feeling her lashes grow heavy.

She’s half asleep when a hand delves softly into the blankets behind her, tucking her in slightly. She makes a little noise, lifting a hand to shove loose brown locks back from her eyes…

When she turns and looks up to see Widowmaker, her brows tuck in and Tracer makes a soft noise of  _ distress. _

She looks around, to find one of the clocks, sitting up as she tries to wait the hallucination out. 

They’ll think she’s  _ crazy _ if they hear her talking to an empty room.

“...are you….actually here?” Tracer whispers, an edge of  _ accusation _ in her tone. 

“ _ Oui. _ I could not...get the image out of my mind.”

Tracer turns slightly, curled beneath her blanket to better see Widowmaker as she speaks.

“I...wanted to make sure...they did not fail. I am...not the best medic.”

Well. If it’s a hallucination...maybe this one would not be so bad to indulge. Tracer moves the blanket back to show her side, pulling back the hospital pajamas to show her side.

Widowmaker reaches over to turn on one of the lamps (not something a hallucination ever did, to Tracer’s knowledge) so she could have a better look.

It’s...strange, she thinks, as cool fingers reach down to hold back the cloth and look at the bruised skin. Tracer’s gaze lifts to focus on that face, finding it  _ difficult _ to process the look of focused calm. She remembers the way Widow looked the day before, the spectrum of emotion she saw in those eyes, the fear and grief and frustration…

“It’s pretty bruised, but Mercy says I just need some rest…”

Those yellow eyes lift from the bruising to her own.

“You do not sound convinced…”

Tracer makes a faint noise, curling back beneath her blanket.

“....it doesn’t hurt as much. And I know it’s gonna get better...but…” Those spiky locks shake back and forth. “...’m scared. Feels like….I’m dissociating.”

The bed creaks beneath Widowmaker’s weight as she sinks down beside Tracer. 

“...that...the implant is malfunctioning?” comes that dark voice.

“...I don’t know. I’ve got two kinds, you know. Chronal Dissociation is what the  _ scientists _ call my condition, but the psychologists told me I mentally dissociate too…”

Tears form in those eyes, panicked tears of  _ hopelessness _ .

“So I don’t...know...if it’s my brain or the implant. Or even which is worse…”

Tracer swallows back a hopeless, bitter little sob.

“And I can’t imagine you’re actually  _ here _ . So now I’m just hallucinating. They’re gonna lock me up…”

The dam of carefully repressed emotions breaks and Tracer bows her head, sobbing into her hands and the blanket. She had been so quick to move forward after the accident, not telling doctors about dissociation episodes and just...trying to pretend it wasn’t a problem until they finally  _ weren’t _ . But now...the unprocessed fears spring to life all over again. And she muffles her sobs into the blanket. 

Yellow eyes watch silently. Careful hands reach out, to carefully pull that blanket tighter about slim shoulders…

And the single act of  _ gentleness _ is enough to give Tracer  _ some _ modicum of grounding, to help her get a hold of herself. To watch those hands, and to feel the pressure of the blanket. 

“...if it helps, I cannot believe I’m here either,” Widowmaker counters. “But...I assure you, this is real.”

“....then...will you let someone else see you? Before you go?”

“You must want me dead.”

Tracer bows her head, swallowing back a sigh. She bites her lip, gazing down at that leg to her right. She wants so  _ badly _ to believe, that Widowmaker  _ would _ come, just to be sure that Tracer had survived, that she would make a recovery…

It falls every bit into the same replayed fantasy that Tracer holds dear. Of seeing those yellow eyes suddenly widen with realization. Accepting  _ salvation,  _ of opening the floodgates and letting all of Tracer’s long repressed affections bubble up to wash away the darkness Talon inflicted. That the kiss they shared at King’s Row would blossom into something  _ else _ , something warm and binding.

“...you’ve got scopes,” Tracer whispers, “....you could’a seen me from my window to know I would...be okay...so why did you come?”

Widowmaker is silent for a while, reaching over to run cool blue fingers along Tracer’s jaw. A thumb brushes over full, pink lips.

“ _ Je ne sais pas.” _

“Guess I shouldn’t...try to figure out why…’n’ be grateful for what I’ve got, huh…”

Widowmaker gestures to the bed, carefully pressing those slim shoulders down. And Tracer follows the silent command, curling in the center. She expects to see that form head towards the window she came from...but…

Instead, Widow lies down in front of her, their faces inches apart.

Tracer can’t look away from those eyes, luminous by the faint light in the hallway. She makes a soft noise, her hands curled under her own chin in fear that one wrong move will chase this comforting phantom away. 

She closes her eyes when a hand brushes the hair off her forehead, a noise burning in her throat when cool lips brush just above her brow…

“You should sleep soon,” comes that low tone. “ _ Tu dors.” _

Those lips brush over the tip of her nose now, and Tracer’s sense of anxiety starts to leave her. She feels heavy and sleepy, comforted despite her fears…

Her hand reaches to hold Widowmaker’s, to anchor herself.

“...alright, love, but...you can’t leave until I’m asleep. Got it?”

“ _ D’accord.” _

Tracer’s eyes flutter shut, only to open again when those lips find the corner of her mouth. 

“...never gotten a kiss from a hallucination before,” Tracer whispers softly. “Definitely a new one.”

Those lips lift back to her forehead, presses there and shushing softly. Cool fingers sweep up the back of her neck, to scratch softly into her scalp. 

“I should be  _ insulted _ ,” comes that tone. “Coming all this way to be called an  _ hallucination, _ ” Widowmaker whispers, though her tone betrays mild amusement. 

“Yeah but...I just...can’t...imagine you  _ actually _ doing this….”

Those fingers just keep stroking, and Tracer’s eyes grow heavier, her voice getting lighter and more faint. 

“...though...whatever you are….it’s helping.”

Tracer drifts off, feeling warm and  _ safe _ . 

Slowly, those soft brown eyes open, falling to the empty bed in front of her. Sadly, she reaches over to smooth the sheets, to try to find any physical marker that would suggest her hallucination was real. 

But...the sheets are cold and unrumpled apart from her own sleep. She knows the truth. Just something her brain conjured to keep her from tearing herself apart.

That’s alright, though. She makes peace with it. The dream was good, and the thought of being softly kissed while at her weakest is something that fills Tracer’s chest with warmth. Definitely something to remember on a bad day…

Lips, cool but not  _ frigid _ , brushing against her own. The soft attentiveness of a hand buried in her hair...the sound of that voice only inches away from her face. Probably one of the best dreams she’s had. 

What would it feel like, for more…? She  _ knows _ one kiss was real, at least. 

Tracer lifts her hand to her lips, the corner of her mouth still  _ burning _ with the memory of her little dream.

The little fantasy keeps her rooted, as a couple hours pass and she slips in and out of light dozing. She thinks of being held, what it would be like to feel that exposed breast pressed softly against her back. Without the outer harness, it could be quite comfortable...tucked beneath the sheets. And then her neck would be free for that mouth to find…

When her thoughts get a little too wild, Tracer finally gives up on resting, pulling off the hospital issue pajamas in favor of wrapping up in her favorite jacket and a pair of leggings and wandering down for breakfast.

She feels loose and relaxed, though it doesn’t take her long to see how  _ tense _ the rest of Overwatch are. 

“Winston,” she calls when he ambles by, falling in step beside him. “What’s everyone going on about?”

She stops dead in her tracks when he answers her:

“...Widowmaker was spotted in the perimeter last night.”


	4. Volskaya

The fourth time found Tracer quietly climbing up towards Widowmaker’s sniping perch. She’s not climbing up behind her, of course, rather climbing up an opposite spire so she can scout a safe distance away. 

She’s a lot slower, climbing up. She can close gaps quickly on the ground, but in the air...she’s just a little slower. And...if she’s honest, a slight bit more cautious. Best to avoid sudden falls, if at all possible. 

It had been months since Tracer’s near death experience, since Widowmaker was spotted near HQ. And their in battle attitudes seem to have shifted significantly. Tracer seems to have found herself as an object of attention--but not malice, often sensing something, turning, and seeing Widowmaker perched several hundred yards away. Just...observing, it seems.

They’d go through the motions, lately, when observed, shooting at one another but never seeming to make contact. An unspoken  _ truce.  _

Still. She has to be on her toes. Tracer ducks behind a wall atop Volskaya Industries when a spray of bullets comes her way.

The shots fired at Tracer are  _ lazy _ , coming from such a precise sniper. And Tracer knows it’s treatment allowed only for her, glimpsing how fearfully accurate she could be, when that tall form suddenly turns and crouches and with barely any effort at all, sends a bullet 300 yards to bring someone to their knees. 

“You’re playing with fire,” Tracer whispers to herself in a half song, biting her lip as she does her best to climb up to match altitude with Widowmaker. Unlike others equipped with wings (or in Widowmaker’s case, a grappling hook), it does take Tracer a bit more time to climb. And her odd little fear of heights creeps up, making progress even  _ slower _ .

The sharp crunch and  _ swip! _ makes Tracer lift her head, scrambling to find purchase on the roof before Widowmaker is too close.

“ _ Parlez,”  _ comes that French tongue, stopping Tracer from blinking backwards. Still, Tracer won’t be caught off guard by it, holding her pistols just in case. Talon  _ did _ have a reputation for backstabbing, after all. 

But Widowmaker looks...looser, than normal, carrying herself with less of that uptight predatory focus and more of that expression of a panther lazy from feasting. She glances back down, gesturing quietly.

“They seem to have moved further south.”

Tracer leans out slightly, hanging off of the escape ladder to see for herself. Sure enough, the fighting seems to push further away, making a shot by Widowmaker impossible. And if Widowmaker can’t make a shot,  _ they _ will not be seen.

Yellow eyes spot Tracer’s hand, the way it grips a nearby escape ladder a little  _ too _ tightly. Dark, thin brows furrowing while blue lips tug in a wry smile.

“What good is a pilot fearful of heights?” she asks,  _ mockingly. _

“Not  _ scared _ of them, just...appropriately  _ careful _ ,” Tracer counters, her indignation tugging her hand from the pole to rest on her hips. “Besides. Planes are made to fly. People...not so much.”

“You are just not properly  _ equipped _ .”

Tracer steps close (as close as she  _ dares _ , anyways), when Widowmaker lowers her left wrist to show her grappling hook. Those fingers open loosely…

Tracer hesitates, amber eyes soft and bright with curiosity, but she doesn’t close the gap. Widowmaker waits a moment before her lips purse with mild confusion.

“ _ Regarde.” _

The command is soft, an  _ invitation _ . Those gloved fingers open a bit wider, turning towards Tracer to make it easier.

Pink lips part. And Tracer takes a soft breath, hesitantly closing the gap.

She’s never been this close before. Well, scratch the times she’s been pinned in place, she supposes. But this is different: not only is she allowed so close, but she’s being  _ invited _ . Widowmaker watches her quietly, her hand relaxed as Tracer’s gloved fingers slowly rest on the edge of that gauntlet.

“...always wondered how it works,” Tracer mutters softly, sliding her fingers down to rest in that palm, where she can feel the arrow-like head of the grappling hook, tucked neatly away. “Doesn’t it hurt? Can’t imagine being yanked about by your arm would feel too good…”

“The pauldron absorbs the shock,” Widowmaker answers, gesturing towards the cap over her shoulder. “Though it does take some...getting used to.”

Tracer tilts her head. It’s surprisingly,  _ amazingly _ ...mechanic, all things considered. She had always been afraid that some of Widowmaker’s weapons and abilities had been grafted on, forced on her like a slowed heartbeat and scant breathing…

She turns that arm in her hands gingerly, to look at the top of the gauntlet.

“Venom mines,” Widowmaker answers before Tracer has a chance to form the question. And the small thought builds in Tracer’s mind, bubbling into soft, innocent laughter.

“S’you’re like me,” she says proudly, amber eyes bright with realization. “Ambidextrous.”

The laughter seems to catch Widowmaker off-guard, dark brows shooting up slightly until she hears the last word. And when those brows furrow back down, Tracer keeps her hold on that hand.

“I mean...I do tend to do  _ slightly _ better right-handed. They could never keep me straight in school though. Kept switching hands….Amélie--”

“...was left handed.”

Tracer bites her lip, her gaze falling when she stops herself from talking about  _ Amélie _ . She hadn’t meant to, one of the many accidental slips of that name...so when Widowmaker finishes her sentence, she feels a little ache in her heart, a twinge as she blinks slowly.

“Yeah…” she whispers. “Used to...watch her write. Or you write…”

She doesn’t know which is which anymore. It seems more accurate than not that they’re  _ separate _ , and her idea of Amélie sleeping just below Widowmaker’s cruelty seems less and less plausible. Even in her softer moments, Widowmaker is still so... _ different _ …

Tracer opens her mouth, glancing up to start to say something when that hand finds her own wrist. She makes a noise, turning to indulge that curiosity when she sees those yellow eyes fall on the casings resting against her ulnar bone. She smiles a bit more broadly again.

“Holsters,” she says by way of explanation. “Never much liked the feeling of anything on my hips.”

She suddenly goes pink when Widowmaker glances down, as though to confirm there’s nothing there. And when that gaze  _ stays _ there, Tracer takes a half step back, suddenly feeling self conscious.

“You can’t...see through clothes, can you?”

“Is  _ that _ what you are afraid of?”

Tracer stamps indignantly, doe eyes wide when that gaze remains resolutely fixed on her hips. She fights the  _ ridiculous _ desire to drop her hands down, the pinkness of her cheeks darkening red when Widowmaker takes a half step closer.

And though she’s heard that laugh before, shot up at her to counter the sorrow and disbelief of  _ cruelty _ , Tracer’s never heard Widowmaker laugh in responsive  _ playfulness. _

Something loosens, inside Tracer, as she looks up to see those yellow eyes rounded and mirthful, the corners of a blue mouth tugged into an open little smile. 

“ _ Non _ , don’t be  _ ridiculous-- _ I cannot see through clothes. I can isolate a target through walls using the Infra-Sight. But no,  _ Chérie,  _ if I am to see you without clothes, then you will have to take them off yourself.”

All rational thought leaves Tracer’s mind with that, barely able to swallow back her  _ confusion _ as she gazes into those yellow eyes that now pierce into her own. She can barely get her lungs to pull a breath as she tries to untangle the implication of those words. And she can’t quite figure out if it’s  _ flirting _ or an assumption of ridiculousness that would lead Tracer to run around a battlefield in  _ just _ her jacket…

“If I had known  _ that _ would silence you, I would have done so years ago,” comes that low voice, and any hope of breathing leaves Tracer in a hurry when a hand rests on her cheek.

Widowmaker lets out a soft sigh when words, again, fail the smaller. Tracer wants to open her mouth, to ask what she means, to hunt down some sort of resolution, but she doesn’t want to be  _ wrong _ , and the fear of getting it wrong brings her lips closed again….

But something passes in those yellow eyes, shifting from amusement to something far more serious. 

“Privacy is a privilege,  _ Chérie... _ one I will not rob anyone of.”

Tracer tilts her head slightly, at first in  _ confusion _ , until her eyes dart to the exposed collar, the clothes that amplify  _ sexuality _ rather than modesty or protection...

Amber eyes fall lower, to the swells of those breasts, the way cool blue skin stands exposed... And suddenly Tracer feels ill at the implication, dark brows pressing in. A sudden burst of  _ anger _ rages through her, the thought of Widowmaker being dressed by  _ Talon _ . Did she have no say in it at all? 

“You don’t...get to--”

“ _ Non. _ They choose as they see fit.”

Tracer’s courage begins to return, and she takes a brave step closer to Widowmaker. Despite the weather, (despite  _ herself) _ , she slowly strips off a glove, biting her lip and looking into those yellow eyes as she slowly rests her warm fingers over where a heart would once have been beating.

She feels that chest expand, a sudden intake of breath from  _ surprise _ . Her fingers lift slightly, ready to pull back should the close contact be reviled.

But Widowmaker only stands there, neither encouraging or denying, and Tracer feels herself drawn back to  _ touching _ rather than speaking. 

So long had she spent, deprived of  _ touch _ . She could only see, sometimes hear. Glimpses of that awful room they had corralled her into, of trying to touch the padded walls only to watch her hand phase through. 

So on top of being known for being  _ chatty _ , Tracer also had a small reputation for being  _ tactile. _ Touching clothes, weapons, walls,  _ people _ . When she’d come up behind an ally, it would not be rare for her to rest a hand on their back, both for her and for  _ them _ . Touch was  _ precious _ ...as was company.

Bare fingers spread over that bare expanse of skin. And while  _ cold _ , it doesn’t feel...quite like she expected. Widow’s skin is silky, between her breasts, certainly cold on the outside, but Tracer feels some echoes of warmth beneath…

“Could always get you a jacket like mine,” Tracer whispers, letting her thumb  _ softly _ sweep over the bottom of a full breast. “It’s got soft fleece on the inside. Make your chest feel toasty…”

A hand lowers shyly, to take Widowmaker’s left hand and lift it to her collar.

“See?” she whispers, closing her eyes as she feels those fingers move softly over the fleece resting against her neck. 

And when Tracer opens her eyes, to look at her hand still spread over that chest, her eyes lift slightly, catching full blue lips  _ parted _ and yellowed eyes closed. 

The look is so  _ disarmed _ , Tracer seeing those brows furrow at the center, lifting slightly. She takes a tiny step closer, letting her hand relax over that bare skin, smoothing her fingers along it. A mix of emotions washes over Tracer, warmth and  _ relief _ , a bit of  _ pride _ thinking of all the times Widowmaker was called  _ untouchable _ , and soft sorrow to imagine how rare of a sensation this must be. 

The fingers at her collar slowly slip inward, and Tracer’s eyes flutter shut when they brush against her throat. For half a moment a little spike of adrenaline courses through her, preparing for the moment when those exploring fingers turn hostile and cut off her oxygen. But they never do, sliding up to feel her jaw...and then…

Tracer watches those eyes open, watching silently when that hand brushes the dark chestnut hair from her eyes. Her lashes flutter shut, Tracer angling her chin up slightly.

A hand buries into her hair, the other locking around her from behind. She can feel the side of the  _ Widow’s Kiss _ against her backside, cold and seeping through her tights. But it fades when those lips find hers.

Tracer presses as close as she can to that chest, pressing back against that kiss. She wants to flood Widowmaker with  _ warmth _ , to remind her what it’s like to be embraced and touched and  _ kissed _ whenever she wants…

The kiss makes her feel weak, from the hand in her hair to the one pressed against her lower back. Her knees buckle slightly, but Widow only holds her closer. 

It’s odd, she thinks, being held so  _ close _ and so  _ gently _ by the enemy. She knows her accelerator can’t feel terribly comfortable pressed against that chest, and the cold buckles can’t feel too good against bare skin either. But Widow holds her  _ tightly _ , and Tracer couldn’t bring herself to argue if she  _ wanted _ to. 

Tracer turns her head, feeling a bit more  _ familiar _ this time around. Her teeth part slightly to bite gently down on a blue lower lip, nibbling softly.

Beneath her hand, she feels Widow’s breast lift again, something she now recognizes as  _ surprise _ . 

“ _ Je t’aime…” _

The pronunciation always  _ eluded  _ her, but Tracer hasn’t forgotten the little French lessons Amélie gave her. 

_ “It is more in the back of your throat. Not that you know how to say your ‘r’s dans Anglais.” _

_ It had made her giggle, turning pink when that warm hand had taken hold of her mouth to force it into the right shape. And the ceaseless, blissful warmth that Lena carried with her everywhere pulled the corners of dark lips into a wide smile, giving up trying to explain the nuances of French pronunciation in favor of laughing along with Lena. _

_ “Very well then, try this: Je t’aime, mon amie.” _

_ “What’s that one mean?” _

_ “It means ‘I love you, my friend’.” _

Tracer knows she’s  _ slaughtering _ it, but...tears well in her eyes and she whispers it  _ again _ , committed against those blue lips.

“ _ Je t’aime _ , Widow. Do you know that, love?  _ Je t’aime. Je t’aime. Je t’aime….” _

She sniffles faintly, when that hand buries a little tighter into her hair. And when Widowmaker pulls back from the kiss, Tracer  _ whimpers _ , until she’s tucked under that chin, the hand in her hair keeping her close.

“ _ Je connais, ma fille,”  _ comes that dark voice, whispered softly into her hair. 

And with a soft sigh, Widowmaker pulls back. Those hands rest on Tracer’s shoulders, fixing her collar to protect her against the cold wind, fixing her hair from when she carded through it. Tracer’s hands rest on those wrists and she lets out a low sigh, knowing their time has grown short. 

“Thank you, for letting me get so close, love,” she whispers softly, gazing into yellow eyes. “Better get back before I’m missed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you guys!! have been the best. you should know I started a nsfw doodle blog so. if you're into that. check it out? 
> 
> http://radfeathers.tumblr.com/   
> <3<3


	5. King's Row (Revisited)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just a warning: references torture and brainwashing. nothing too awful but aware it can be a bit much for sensitive folks.

Widowmaker had known something was off, that something was  _ wrong _ . Something has been wrong for months now, a slow climbing,  _ nagging _ sense of her body changing…

Talon required her to return every 3 months for a comprehensive physical. What followed was a week of hell, of endurance testing, of sensitivity and readministration of the treatment that left her skin cold and her heart slow. 

Talon’s laboratory was a place even Widowmaker avoided if she could. This was by far the worst week out of every three months. But this time...something is  _ wrong _ . 

She has flashes of  _ memory _ , not the dulled heavy discomfort but of real  _ emotional _ memory of panic and terror. Flashes of pain and pure, soul ripping  _ grief _ . 

Something...is wrong.

The scientists discuss her as though she’s not there, as they fit a mask over her nose and mouth to measure oxygen intake and output. 

Her heart-rate is too high. She’s breathing too frequently. Brain activity is too high. Body temperature is too high. 

And Widowmaker, cold composed  _ Widowmaker _ , a machine created by Talon to feel no emotion save for the brief, satisfying moment of watching her target crumble….begins to feel her body flood with  _ terror. _

_ She’s screaming for him again, his name on her lips like a prayer. Over and over again, when the pain mounts, when the straps bite into her slender wrists… _

_ “Gérard!” _

_ They’re dipping her in that ice bath again, a breathing mask over her nose and mouth doing little to stop her lungs from collapsing against the bitter cold. She’s sobbing, struggling,  _ **_pleading_ ** _ , but they don’t listen.  _

The sudden sound of water makes those yellowed eyes turn wide, the fear finally showing itself when her head jolts to the side to see the ice bath. 

She hears the scientists discuss her as the omnic orderlies take hold of her to place in the ice bath.

“She’s reverting.”

Yellow eyes squeeze shut, biting tightly into the inside of her cheek as they plunge her down. Her head throws back as the water covers her face. 

For the first time in nine years….Widowmaker  _ thrashes _ . 

~

_ Beep. _

_...beep. _

The heart rate monitor reflects her slowing heart, the sound grating slowly on blue ears. She can hear them moving around her, taking samples, inserting new drugs into her IV.

_ Beep _ . 

A cold latex clad hand twists into her hair to turn her head to the side, inserting a small capsule right behind her left ear. It’s modified version of what they use on Omnics--to short out their circuits in case they start to go rogue. It’s what Talon used on ring leaders on Null Sector to ensure  _ loyalty _ . That the uprising would go as planned. A quid pro quo, considering the weapons they supplied for them.

Widowmaker groans when they let go of her head, yellowed eyes peering past the mask fit over her nose and mouth and gazing sightlessly at the ceiling above.

Her terror is beginning to abate, replaced with a dull  _ numbness _ that creeps in from her extremities. 

_ Beep. _

The sensation is a familiar one, the odd absence of terror, or rage. She hadn’t realized she had begun to emerge from this nine year veil...and all because…

_ Beep….beep… _

Tracer. Those bright eyes, a soft scattering of freckles across the bridge of that slender nose. Those thick lashes would flutter up at Widowmaker, a clear eagerness in those eyes to come closer, to  _ touch _ . 

_ Beep. Beep. Beep. _

Those lips had been so  _ warm _ against her own, so eager to feel affection and return it in kind. She had begged Widowmaker to come  _ back _ , that perhaps their doctors could do something about her condition. 

_ Beep. Beep. Beep. _

For just a moment, regret blossoms in that chest. Widow’s lips part behind the oxygen mask, her chin tilting up. Those yellow eyes well with tears. 

But the scientists are still at work. She sees--just a moment too late--that they’re already reaching to up her dosage. 

_ Beep. Beep…...beep. _

The warmth begins to fade. The regret sinks down into a numb emptiness. 

_ Beep. _

~

Nine months pass. 

She’s been kept in Talon laboratories that long, being subjected to more tests, more drugs, being hung, half drowned, and injected. But they’re done now, her heart rate returned to a nearly dead six beats per minute, her skin back to deep blue. 

The last time she had been broken like this it had taken much less time. She knows she’s proven her value--enough to make such internment worthwhile. But the first time had taken weeks rather than months. The initial fight with her body had been much less...pronounced.

The scientists struggled with the drugs this time. Keeping her body under had been much more difficult. She had become resistant to the dosages that had once kept her fully under.

But now, nine months later, she’s back to how she was the first time, a perfectly emotionless assassin. She passed all her tests, physical and mental.

She’s given back her uniform.

~

She remembers her first mission, to counter snipe Overwatch’s sniper, to assist in capturing their scientists. She remembers the pure sense of  _ calm _ she felt, the sense of control and hazy  _ power _ . She still bears a scar from when Ana Amari cracked her helmet with her shot--something that without her visor, likely would have killed her. 

That sense of calm feels far away. She remembers several of her missions, moments of calm positioning followed by a single bullet and a sense of nearly  _ euphoric _ bliss. For a few precious moments her heart-rate would rise, endorphins would flow.

Reprogramming dulls the memories. Not into  _ nothingness _ ...but it chokes them. She would only be able to experience that life again the moment her next target would crumple.

She’s given her briefing, her next mission:

An assassination. 

_ Lena Oxton. Callsign: Tracer _ . 

Distantly Widowmaker knows  _ why _ . It would be twofold--a test of  _ loyalty _ , and a way to get rid of that nagging  _ pest _ . After Morrison’s death, she had become the face of Overwatch, even disbanded. To paint a wall with her blood...well. Overwatch would never  _ truly _ recover.

It was not unlike her very  _ first _ assassination. Talon wanted Gérard LaCroix. He was a thorn in their side since the beginning, and every traditional assassination attempt ended in failure. But he would never think to suspect his wife, never once think to guard his bed against his beloved. 

Widowmaker supposes, distantly, that it’s much the same. Talon had intel on her previous missions. They knew the softness the former pilot had for Widowmaker. Trust had been built, months ago, and it would likely still be there. 

There is, after all, a reason her weapon is called the Widow’s Kiss. 

It seems whoever kisses her will die by her. 

~

It’s raining again, in King’s Row. It’s raining like that night nearly a year ago, when she had first spotted Lena Oxton perched hidden away from the fight with only a pair of traditional pistols. The air feels the same. It  _ smells _ the same. 

There’s no conflict here, this time. She’s been dropped in to do her mission, and nothing else. No one even knows she’s here.

Widowmaker sinks into position, gracefully flowing backwards from her grappling hook. Down her scope she finds her mark. 

She’s sitting in the pub, bathed in warm light. That hair seems as wild as ever, or maybe it just  _ seems _ that way, with her hair falling freely over those eyes, unhindered by her goggles. They hang about her neck, letting the small group of friends she’s currently talking with a better view of those eyes. And, without her knowledge, Widowmaker. 

Something claws within her, even as her finger slowly closes around the trigger. 

She has a clear shot. It would be so fast as to be  _ painless _ .

And clearly she has not been remembered. Nine months is a long time….

Widowmaker exhales one of her few breaths, trueing her aim.

This is normally the time she would feel a  _ warmth _ begin to blossom, an appetite begin. She was about to make her kill, to  _ live _ again. It should have been all that was needed for her to steady herself and pull the trigger. 

But it wasn’t coming. That hawk-like gaze watches those eyes--the smile that reaches well into them, the way she laughs at something one her companions said.

She settles the scope down, to that exposed collarbone and lower. Right over her heart. 

The predatory stillness should have overtaken by now, the low buzz of anticipation before the kill. It should have come. Oxton  _ should _ have been reduced now to a target, a euphoric power to sweep over Widowmaker as she would be overcome with a sense of pure  _ bliss _ at the thought of being in control of someone else’s life.

Instead...her fingers shake.

Widowmaker’s finger squeezes down on the trigger until she feels that sharp  _ click _ , the harsh recoil of a weapon against her shoulder.  

Yet at the last moment, she pushes the muzzle of her gun right, hearing the bullet shatter glass. 

Through the scope she sees that relaxed visage flinch  _ sharply _ , head whipping up to see the broken glass, then up to measure the trajectory of the bullet--

And for a brief moment, those eyes lock on Widowmaker’s through her infrasight. Then...blue fingers tug at her visor, pulling it loose and dropping it to the ground below. She meets those eyes, those warm amber eyes, feeling a longing break loose of the empty numbness that had become her being. 

She can’t shake the look of betrayal on that face. It pierces deeper than she ever thought it would. 

Widowmaker suddenly crumbles, a pain  _ splintering  _ through her skull. The capsule breaks behind her left ear. 

She hears screaming below. And distantly, she hears the sound of Tracer blinking. 

With a groan she collapses down to one knee, fingers scraping against the old stonework of the building she’s on. 

Suddenly she’s aware she’s not alone, aware of wide amber eyes regarding her.

Amid the pain that threatens to consume her, Widow gazes back up at Tracer. Her breathing comes quickly, unsteadily, braced against her forearm while Tracer drops to her knees nearby. 

Her vision swims. She begins to feel profoundly  _ cold _ . 

“Why?”

Tracer’s voice is desperate,  _ sharp _ , so much like the night of Mondotta’s assassination. Yet Widowmaker’s response is very different.

“ _ Chérie…” _

The whisper leaves her rapidly numbing lips, a pet name that had started as a stabbing, twist of a joke spoken moments before slamming Tracer into a wall and leaving her for dead. Now...now she  _ means _ it.

Her arm buckles. Widowmaker rolls limply to her back.

It’s a worthy trade, she thinks as her body begins to go truly  _ numb _ . It’s worth it. To rob the world of such vibrancy...when she is already halfway dead after what Talon did to her? 

She knows Tracer is saying something, those beautiful amber eyes wide, full lips parting and mouthing words that don’t reach Widowmaker’s ears. 

She does, however, feel the hand that searches her neck for a pulse--the warmth so startlingly  _ clear _ . Her cold fingers lift to meet those at her neck, to feel the pure, lovely heat that is rapidly leaving her body. 

She’s fully on her back now, slumped there as her body steadily gave way. And Tracer is on top of her, so reminiscent of their first contact after she had been  _ altered _ . Those lovely, heartbroken eyes wide with tears, demanding why she had just assassinated  _ Mondotta _ . 

She can’t hear what Tracer is saying, but she can feel the warmth of those fingers. And she feels Tracer’s tears fall to splatter across her cheek, rolling off of cool blue skin and onto the stonework beneath.

Her other senses seem to be leaving her. But if she can still feel those fingers, then perhaps Tracer will forgive her for one last moment of indulgence. 

Her fingers feel numb when she pulls that collar down, purple lips parting with a faint expression of pain. 

The fifth time happens there, in between a hazy exhale and a whimper of pain, silenced by the low hiss of the clothes soaking rain. The fifth time is barely a kiss at all, the brush of lips moments before Widow’s head falls back to the rooftop lifelessly.


	6. Home

The shatter of glass brings relaxed amber eyes sharp, Tracer shoving back from the table. After so many years in combat, the reaction is smooth and second nature, yelling at the civvies to get in the back and take cover. 

She glances up from the window, following the line of the bullet up to the roof and--

Tracer’s heart stops in her chest.

_ Widowmaker. _

Widowmaker, after nine months of  _ nothing _ . After nine months of dreams and memories and  _ longing _ , of wanting to see that face again and feel those lips on her own. 

The thought occurs to Tracer just  _ seconds _ after spotting Widowmaker--one that shakes her to her very  _ core. _

_ Was this...for me? _

All Overwatch agents were targets. Even now, with most of the conflict dying down, there was still the threat of assassination. And now…

It  _ was _ for her, wasn’t it?  _ She _ was the one sitting by the window, the only one in the clear. And Widowmaker…

But something isn’t right - there, out in the open, Widowmaker slowly lowers her gun. A hand reaches up to pull off her visor. 

There’s something  _ broken _ in those yellow eyes, the way that dark brow furrows while looking at her. Did she throw the shot? Even against the order to--

The silhouetted sniper suddenly crumples with a cry, and Tracer feels her blood go cold. Fast as she can, she races up to her, but she’s slow on verticals, slow to reach the roof.

She hears screaming below, her hands gripping onto fire escapes to get onto the roof. The metal is wet with the rain, rain picking up and soaking through her tights…

She’s on her knees, fingers digging into the stonework near a forgotten visor. That body, normally still and stable  _ writhes _ , noises of pain echoing from that throat. 

Tracer feels frozen when those eyes climb to find hers, unfocused and glassing over. 

It would have confused Tracer if she hadn’t seen the same thing happen with Talon omnics countless times over. 

Her knees crumple beneath her with shock.

“Why?”

Why did Talon have her do this? Why did she refuse? Why  _ now, _ after nine long months of wondering whatever happened to her…?

That voice, normally smooth as silk, grates like gravel from those lips. 

“Chérie…”

That body slumps to the ground, Tracer crawling frantically to her. She already seems to be fading, that heartbeat erratic as it rises against Tracer’s fingers. 

“Stay with me, Spidah!” she cries as those eyes start to roll back. It can’t  _ be _ like this, months of careful trust building, of thinking that if they just had another interaction, she could convince Widowmaker to come  _ home, _ to let Dr. Ziegler look at her... _ something _ could be done.

It wasn’t supposed to be this way, with Widowmaker laying on her back in the rain. 

A hand, shaking and slow, rests upon Tracer’s at Widow’s neck. Her fingers are ice cold already, smoothing across the soft of Tracer’s wrist.

She feels it slide slowly up her arm, tears spilling down her cheeks as those fingers grip around her collar. Tears and rain fall to paint that paling blue face when she feels the intent in those fingers, the draw downwards.

It happens so quickly--a brush of lifeless, cold lips against her own before the assassin’s head drops to the side, her hand falling from Tracer’s lapel.

“No…”

Grief wells like a dam about to burst--and burst it does.

“No! You can’t--”

It’s all happening too fast, the hopes, her  _ dreams _ laying shattered there on the pavement beside a cracked visor and a forgotten sniper rifle. How long had she grieved for Amélie...and how much longer will she have to grieve for Widowmaker?

Her sobs come in waves, screams interspersed. Her body comes to rest over that neck, her arms wrapping around that lifeless chest. How long had she been cold like this? How many months in Talon’s keep had she been left alone, with no one to hold her?

Overwatch finds her like this, still wrapped around what was the Widowmaker, sobbing and refusing to let go.

* * *

The trauma is too much. 

At first she’s in near hysterics, when they try to get her off of the assassin, so worked up and  _ furious. _ She knows what happens now--that Widowmaker represents valuable enemy intel and any information about her bionics would be put to good use. They need to get her into their labs. To study. To study a  _ corpse. _

The very thought sends Tracer nearly violent, fighting anyone who tries to get between her and Widow. They already failed her once, did they need to do something so  _ awful _ to her in the name of science?

She’s torn away kicking and screaming, fighting with every last fiber of her being until they sedate her.

* * *

Angela Ziegler does  _ not _ want to do it.

She knew Amélie. She knew the beautiful dancer, having grown a very warm and strong friendship with her. She was there for the extraction team, to find her friend, cold and thin, bruised and trembling in that Talon holding cell. And every time they were told that Widowmaker was nearby, she always felt a cold sense of  _ loneliness, _ of seeing Amélie’s face but...never Amélie. Never again. 

They had put her down in the morgue below, keeping the body oxygenated for better research.

She doesn’t want to do it. 

She’s never once seen Tracer so violently upset, and somewhere within herself...she understands it. Amélie had been there for Tracer when she was still so  _ young. _ She knew the conversations they had, the way that Lena could calm Amélie down when not even her husband could. And it was returned in kind, Amélie brought reassurance to the youngest pilot, calming frayed nerves and being a kind ear when the girl needed someone to confess her pre-flight jitters to.

She draws the sheet off of that body. 

She looks...peaceful, lain upon that table, eyes closed as if in sleep. 

Angela Ziegler does not want to do it.

* * *

No one really had the heart to press any charges on Lena, despite that what she did could  _ easily _ be considered insubordination. But no one could find it in themselves to do so.

She spent a few days in Overwatch’s infirmary before being discharged. 

She’s been ordered to take it easy. To stay home…

Lena lays on her bed, brows furrowed. Quietly she stares up at the ceiling.

_ Amélie LaCroix.  _

She didn’t deserve this... _ any _ of this...

It should have been  _ her. _ Widowmaker should have taken the shot. Maybe they would have captured her, been able to save her first. Tracer knew the risks, they all did. If taking her down would have brought Amélie back home, it would have been worth it. 

Distantly she understands that Widowmaker had made a  _ choice _ at the end. 

* * *

Though she  _ knew _ she would be told a firm  _ no _ \--and that she was still on thin ice after her explosion when they found her next to Widowmaker’s body, she still finds it in herself to walk in, unannounced into Mercy’s office, to level her with pained but  _ sure _ eyes and make her demand known.

“I want a proper funeral.”

Perhaps, had she not been so fueled in her own loss and grief, she would have better seen the exhaustion on that pale face, the way those eyes blink slowly, as though trying to make  _ sense _ of Lena’s demand. 

“Lena--”

“Please...she was one of our  _ own. _ She was taken against her will, can’t we just….can’t we do that much for her?”

Tears well in amber eyes, the thought of  _ Amélie, _ left abandoned for years. The very  _ least _ they could do was to bury her with dignity, with an Overwatch flag over a casket. She was a casualty, after all. She deserved the same honorable burial her husband received. 

“Lena--”

Tears stream down her cheeks now, and she finds it hard to speak--but speak she does.

“She didn’t do anything wrong! She chose...s-she chose to  _ die _ rather than to kill me. Can’t we just--”

_ “Lena.” _

She finally stops, flinching at the command in that tone. The doctor shifts her weight, as though trying to find the words. Tears still come streaming down her cheeks, faint sniffles punctuating the still office.

“...I have not made a formal report,” she begins softly. “But…”

Lena hesitates, when Angela turns, biting into her lip when she’s signaled to  _ follow. _

But instead of a body lain upon a cold table, she sees one, propped up in a hospital bed, eyes closed but  _ breathing, _ long dark hair falling down slender shoulders…

Lena’s breath freezes in her throat. She doesn’t  _ dare _ to hope, not after having spent several nights soaking her pillow with tears…

“I-I don’t…”

“I’m not sure I can explain either. Talon installs poison capsules in case of open resistance in their agents, and while hers didn’t inject the full dosage...she was  _ dead.” _

The doctor lets the statement hang in the air for a moment.

“...then again, her...reconditioning...I’m not sure. She’s breathing on her own now. Her heart is beating. I’m measuring brain activity, though I can’t guarantee she’ll wake.”

Tears stream down Lena’s cheeks as she walks over, to see that face that looks so  _ peaceful,  _ long dark hair spilling across those shoulders…

She reaches out, dragging the backs of her fingers  _ carefully _ along that blue skin…

A sob tears itself from her lips and Lena bows, burying her face in that hair and kissing softly into her scalp. 

One isn’t enough. Lena plants another, another, and still  _ another _ into that dark hair, squeezing her. 

“I-it’s okay now,” she whispers amid sobs. “I-I won’t leave you again…”

* * *

Awareness comes--as does pain--sometime in the night. She’s not exactly sure  _ where _ she is--her fear at first is that she’s back with Talon, strapped down to a table. But...instead, the scratchy, sterile sheets against her skin is of Overwatch branding, something she hasn’t seen in... _ years. _

It’s dark, but warm at least. Her body feels heavy from pain, from  _ sleep, _ and it’s difficult to move past a bit of a squirm. Her face feels sticky from medical tape and intubation, but her throat is clear for now.

It’s then that she realizes she’s not alone.

The breathing is soft, and she can see the figure slumped from an exceptionally uncomfortable chair onto the bed, near her legs. That shock of pointed, wild brown hair can only belong to one person, though.

_ Lena… _

The name comes faster to mind than the callsign, and she realizes that her fingers are wrapped in those--that Lena Oxton fell asleep holding her hand. 

Her throat is too sore to talk, and it’s all she can really do to even stay conscious.

She remembers the roof, as her fingers move beneath the ones loosely wrapped around her own, the memories coming back in sudden chunks. The sight of her, golden and glorious from behind the glass of a tavern. The brightness in those eyes. And the dawning decision that, at cost to herself, she would not pull the trigger to kill Lena Oxton.

But that should have meant  _ death. _ She even felt it take, the way her already chilled body seemed to fall into numbed ice…

Her left hand is clear of the IV, and so she reaches over as her strength allows, to smooth back the hair from those closed eyes, admiring the way her lashes cut half moons into innocent, freckled cheeks. 

It was something she had envied of Tracer, she thinks, as her thumb crosses softly over those freckles--that the smaller was painfully honest with her emotions. She can still remember the weight and warmth of that body pinning her down, with no additional force to  _ subdue, _ just...to hold her still a moment. To demand  _ why. _

And her answer had been to inflict  _ pain. _

* * *

She wakes, to sunlight hitting her eyes, to their conversation--

“--I...I can’t leave.”

“Lena…”

“I-I know. I’ll try harder next time. I’m just not hungry, Doc…”

There’s a shift--the door closing. The sound a chair scraping up close and someone sitting down.

A hand takes her own, and her eyes flutter open.

Those soft brown eyes are stunned, gazing into hers and blinking once before tears  _ well _ in them and she’s given an expression that’s all parts heartbreaking and  _ elated.  _

She doesn’t think she can talk either, so soon--but the hand in hers is an invitation, and she squeezes it, looking down at those fingers and dragging her thumb over those knuckles. 

All at once she’s enveloped--Lena descending on her, arms wrapping around her and that face so close to her own. It  _ hurts _ but she doesn’t care--the bruises be damned, somehow she’s still here, and the first face she sees is  _ hers. _

She moves much slower than Lena, but her arm comes to lock around the girl’s back, to grip into her shirt to keep her  _ close _ . 

* * *

“...I want to walk in the garden,” comes her request. It’s not as though they haven’t walked around before--a small circle around the infirmary, but the walls are starting to feel stifling, and Amélie wants out of the bed. Desperately.

She’s still weak, especially so after five days of being confined here. Or at least...five days of being  _ conscious _ of it…

But it’s a nice day, at least from what she can see outside her window. One of the rare days it isn’t dumping rain…

“That it is,” Lena agrees softly, turning to look into those golden eyes. “Do you want to go now?”

_ “Oui.” _

As her pain lessened, so too did the need to be on her IV, meaning the only thing that  _ really _ held Amélie to her bed was her own strength--or lack of it. 

But Lena is nearby, moving so quickly to help her keep her balance as she stands up.

They hold hands, walking out of the room. Surely it was  _ practical, _ though if that were true, there would be no need to twine their fingers together, to squeeze in unison…

The courtyard wasn’t big, but it was peaceful. There was a little fountain in the middle, a walkway made for a small circuit, and a couple benches.

The scent of the flowers strikes her first, when they open the door and step outside. It’s spring now, she knows--but to actually  _ smell  _ it…

“Thought spring would never come,” Lena admits softly, when the door closes behind them. “It...just seemed impossible this year. Colder than normal…”

That smaller hand squeezes hers.

“Do you want to sit on the bench, love?”

Lena gestures to a bench to their right, next to a rose bush just coming into bloom. Amélie sinks down carefully, turning her attention to the bush but making sure her fingers are still wound gently with Lena’s. It’s a good feeling, something that makes her feel  _ connected. _ Something she needs after so long being isolated. 

“How are you feeling, Ame?”

_ Ame. _

It’s a gentle nickname, one she hasn’t heard in  _ years _ . But since waking in the hospital, she decided she didn’t want to be called anything near her callsign. Amélie would do. She missed hearing it.

The nickname though, hits her with  _ force -  _ It was something a young Lena would call her, from behind a pair of aviators and an irrepressible  _ grin. _

But here it’s spoken so  _ tenderly. _ Those brown eyes gaze into hers, looking for traces of pain on her face. She feels something twist in her heart, a heat spearing dead center in her chest. 

Carefully, she reaches for that neck, to slide her fingers softly along her nape, thumb dragging softly at the short hair falling in front of Lena’s ear.

Amélie’s eyes fall half lidded and her gaze slips from Lena’s down to her lips. 

“Warm,” she whispers, as Lena leans down in soft  _ offering,  _ as she feels Lena’s breath paint her lips.

It would be the  _ first _ time, of many, that Amélie kissed Lena.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi first of all i am so so so so so sorry. I intended to write this chapter and the previous one sort of at the same time so there wouldn't be this like. oh widowmaker is dead now lol and it's not even written with major character death tags BECAUSE THIS WAS SUPPOSED TO BE POSTED LIKE _hours_ after the first but then i got bad writing block and then MONTHS PASSED and people still leave (well deserved) screaming comments on this fic and frankly i don't blame them cos it looked like i just murdered amélie WHICH I DIDN"T MEAN FOR THAT TO JUST....HANG LIKE oohh maybe she's dead JUST KIDDING HAPPY ENDING except then i couldn't even write it so uh _OOPS_
> 
> anyways i'm super super sorry and I finally finished it so
> 
> please don't hate me


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